


Barton's Cartons

by bluesheets



Category: Hawkeye (Comics), Marvel
Genre: (hah almost forgot to add that last tag), Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Clint Barton Has Issues, Fluff and Crack, M/M, Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, and oc employees, clint also has a company, even when clint gets surprise visitors, everything's better with pizza dog, lucky is the company mascot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-05
Updated: 2016-09-05
Packaged: 2018-08-13 04:01:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,072
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7961662
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bluesheets/pseuds/bluesheets
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clint decides to start a company. Cue shenanigans.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Barton's Cartons

**Author's Note:**

> So this is part of a larger series I’ve planned, which is sadly on hold while I’m working on my exams. Apologies for the word count being quite low, but I’m just so glad with what I’ve written and looking forward to adding more to this universe. I consider this as sort of a glimpse into the Barton’s Cartons world, with the beginnings of their relationship. All the awkward talks and them being a couple progress with the series. :D  
> Everyone should go and leave all the love for the excellent art created by myfandemonium which can be found [here](http://myfandemonium.tumblr.com/post/149957425524/my-first-entry-for-the-winterhawk-big-bang-of). It’s literally my vision of the scene as art! /hugs the art.  
> Shoutout to dreamingangelwolf who helped me smooth out the plot and enabled a certain surprise cameo. All the thanks to shiny, em and joey for listening to me whine about Clint, puns and my crazy crack ideas (and still encouraging me to write!) Also, thank you to the mod for the awesome bang!

Some days Clint hates himself. These days have been frequent as of late. He's taken a bit of a breather from S.H.I.E.L.D. and the Avengers know not to call him unless absolutely necessary. He had thought the break was what he needed, to feel something other than bitterness and revenge. The more time he spent alone, the less it helped. 

He needs a purpose, a thing that's his to do. Archery used to be his thing. He can't dissociate it from his profession, now. Not that he hates being the arrow guy, he doesn't think he ever will. 

“What can a beat-up old carnie do, eh Lucky?”

  


“Hey Lucky, do you know I’m not supposed to feed you pizza,” Clint mumbles, patting Lucky as they both chew on their pepperoni special. 

“Woof,” he says, smiling at his dog, “You’re my one good thing, buddy boy.”

“I assume you didn’t include me because good is too minimal an adjective?” Kate is perched on the couch, legs curled up beneath her. She smirks at him, tapping furiously on her phone even as she’s talking to him and munching popcorn. “I’ll accept terrifying, but I think Natasha’s already taken that one.”

“How about loafer?” 

“Clinton Francis Barton, you hypocrite.” 

Clint laughs and dodges the cushion, rolling away from the popcorn she throws next. “Okay, okay. I surrender. Just stop wasting the popcorn, besides I’ve ruined Lucky’s diet enough.” He looks at the couch, it looks soft and inviting but then he’ll have to get up. He settles for resting his head on the cushion. 

“So, what plans do you have?” Kate is stretched out, her ankles interlocked. He glares at the couch. 

“If you must know, I’ve enrolled myself in a class to improve my cooking skills,” Clint says, imitating the posh cadence she falls back into at times. She lifts an eyebrow in response. 

“Alright, I have no plans,” he admits, running a hand through his hair. He needs a haircut, maybe he could convince Natasha to give him one later. Tony had been horrified when he told him that he got his haircut done by one of the neighbour kids. 

“Let’s go to the range, Hawkguy,” Kate says, jumping up and pulling him up without waiting for an answer. 

  


Clint returns to his apartment after meeting his accountant, shell-shocked. A week ago, he wasn’t even aware that he had an accountant, much less a S.H.I.E.L.D. bank account. The therapist he’d been forced to visit had suggested various methods to feel in control of his decisions. One of them was to be organized with his finance. He was on the edge despite the archery session with Kate so he’d decided to see his accountant. 

“I should not be allowed to make decisions.”

He walks over to the couch and collapses on it, staring up at the ceiling. The paint is wearing out in places, and he’s woken up to paint flecks in his mouth more times than he can count. He turns to look at the centre table, its shaky wooden legs and the piles of old newspapers and empty food cartons. 

He turns back to the ceiling. Maybe it’ll have some answers. 

“Hey ceiling, what the fuck should I do with a billion dollars?”

When he’s met with silence, Clint picks up his phone and hits the arrow button. 

“Send in the cavalry!”

In twenty minutes, his small living room plays host to three-fourths of his emergency response team - Katie-Kate, Natasha and Tony. 

“Steve’s busy with Bucky. Said to evaluate if this was an actual emergency before calling him,” Natasha says, raising an eyebrow at Clint.

“I have a billion dollars.”

“I have a zillion dollars,” Tony quips, and everyone rolls their eyes in response.

“What am I supposed to do with it?” Clint asks, morose. 

“Spend it?” Kate suggests, sitting in her usual spot on the couch, Lucky on her lap. 

“It’s a billion dollars.”

“Leave it in the bank, then,” Natasha says, rolling her eyes. Tony looks at her, aghast. 

“No one’s leaving this apartment till we’ve figured out what to do with my money,” Clint announces, only to be met with unimpressed looks. “Please?” He holds his breath, staring them down with sad eyes. 

An hour later, Tony’s called his emergency response team - Pepper, who agrees to help him because, “This will be a lovely departure from the incessant meetings at Stark Industries. No, Tony, you cannot institute a ban against meetings especially when you don’t attend them.”

“So, what do we have planned?”

“Pepper. Barton’s Cartons!” Tony shoots her a brilliant smile. 

“And?” She looks at Clint, patting Tony’s head. Ignoring an exuberant Tony was never a good idea. 

“Um.” Clint scratches the back of his head and points at the design. 

Pepper smiles, and looks at Kate and Natasha. “He’s a tragedy, isn’t he.”

“Hey, he’s my tragedy,” Kate says, jumping onto Clint’s back while Natasha pokes him with her toes.

“Don’t worry, the tragedy club comes with alcohol,” Tony reassures, beaming at him. 

  


With the help of Pepper and her scary efficient team, Clint is now the CEO & Managing Director of Barton’s Cartons, Inc. After he’d come out of his pizza-induced stupor, he did have a surprisingly coherent plan to show Pepper. Barton’s Cartons was the proud supplier of cartons to retail stores, with a supplementary aim to provide free cartons for the homeless, food drives, animal shelters. 

Pepper also found an abandoned warehouse from one of Stark Industries many projects, reupholstered it within a week and fully equipped it in another. She’d been extremely kind and accommodated all of Clint’s specifications, even when he’d asked for more rafters than was really necessary. 

The manufacturing unit comprised of four partially-AI bots that Tony had created, “No, not for you. They’re extras from the robotics division.” “Then why are they named Bartbots?”

They were hilarious, often leaving Clint in splits with their antics. His favorite was when they pretended to be mimes, only with a real box around them. Unfortunately, Pepper had forbidden Tony from creating robot assistants and managers for Clint’s warehouse which meant he’d had to conduct interviews. 

“Clint, it’s time.” 

“No, it isn’t. I’m not ready.” 

“Will you stop being a child? The applicants have been waiting long enough,” Natasha says, dragging him by the collar towards his office. 

“Natasha, wait. I need to get Lucky,” Clint protests, trying in vain to escape from her grip. 

“He’s already next to your chair, Clint,” she replies, hauling him through the side-door and into the room. “I have Pepper’s list of applicants and I’ll send them in once they check out.”

“Aw, Tasha. You’re screening them for me?” He smiles, falling backwards into the chair without a glance. The chair has wheels, one of the few requests he had made, and it was a bright, neon purple. He would be excited to finally test-sit, but he has interviews now. He wonders for the umpteenth time - isn’t that a beauty of a word - why he decided to start a company. 

He blames the economy. When in doubt, always blame the economy. He learnt that one all on his own, from the paper and everything. (Okay, the paper was a blog on the internet. It still counts.)

“Durak. As if they would be in this building without an extensive background check from S.H.I.E.L.D. and JARVIS,” Natasha says, but she doesn’t deny that she is essentially playing bodyguard. She’s dressed business-casual, something that he was recently educated about, and anyone who underestimates her is sure to be disqualified. 

“Alright, let’s do this,” Clint says, gesturing for Lucky to jump onto the table. The first stage of his interview is allowing Lucky to judge the person. He thinks that’s a pretty reasonable call as CEO. Anyone who questions his methods is probably not a good fit, regardless. 

The whole process was relatively painless, except the minor annoyance of Wade Wilson masquerading as a job applicant. Twice. 

“Hi, my name’s Pool. First name, Dead.” 

“Natasha!” Clint calls out desperately, knowing full well that this was payback for taking cookies from her secret stash two months ago. 

“Romanoff let me in, said you could do with some entertainment,” Deadpool smirked, then looked down to coo at Lucky. “I can be the Charms to your Lucky.”

“That’s incredibly disturbing.” Clint batted his hands away from Lucky.

“Isn’t that a job requirement with you S.H.I.E.L.D. guys? I’m still pissed that Agent Smith didn’t let me join the boy band.” 

“Get out.” Clint raises his bow, pointing at the door with his other hand. 

“I’m leaving, I’m leaving.” Deadpool walked to the door, turning at the last moment to announce, “But I’ll be back,” before skipping out. 

“Next one’s not Deadpool,” Natasha says cheerfully, showing a young man in. He’s just about settled in a comfort zone with the interviews, when a Spiderman drops in from the vents. 

“Mr. Barton, pleased to meetcha.” Not again. 

“Why does Spiderman need a part-time job?” Clint stares at the katanas poking out of the costume, hands already reaching for his bow. 

“The superhero gig ain’t cheap, y’know.” Deadpool twiddles his fingers.

“That’s funny, considering I was in the room when Tony and Spidey were discussing upgrades to his suit.”

“Alright, fine. You caught me, seventeen hundred points to you! They don’t call you Hawkeye for nothing.”

“Don’t you have places to be, law enforcement to avoid?” Clint grimaced, watching Deadpool climb out of the Spiderman onesie. 

“I can’t take my eyes off of you.” Deadpool hums.

“I can help you with that,” Clint snaps, notching two arrows and aiming them at his eyes. 

“I liked you better when you weren’t a company man.”

“I liked you better when you were far, far away from me.”

“Hah! Got you to admit your feelings for me,” Deadpool crows, doing a bizarre imitation of the Macarena. 

“Leave before I call Wolverine. He’s still not over last month.”

“Agent Smith sure did a number on you.”

Clint will not be held responsible for the arrows lodged in Deadpool’s ass. 

However, Clint is held responsible for the three people he’s hired on a part-time basis. His employees are pretty awesome, even if he says so himself. There’s Alisha, his assistant manager; Colin, the intern - Clint figures every office needs an intern; and Julia, the office secretary. Their official titles will roll out once he’s got a better handle of their personalities. His own is Carton Overlord, the First. 

He’s unfortunately also responsible for Cap’s long lost friend. It’s too late to have second thoughts on the whole management of a company sitch. At least it’ll get the S.H.I.E.L.D. psychs off his back for a bit. It was impossible to refuse Steve’s stupid, earnest eyes. After the fiasco of Deadpool, he’d settled in for a pizza break with Lucky when Steve arrived with Sam and The Winter Soldier. Only The Winter Soldier was now (and also, before), James Buchanan “Bucky” Barnes. 

Apparently S.H.I.E.L.D. was not happy with letting a former Hydra agent, even if he was innocent, wander around without surveillance. “You sure picked the right time to have a company, Clint,” Steve said, relief seeping through him. “Can Buck work here for a bit? Just until the Council lays off.”

“Does Bucky even want to work here?” Clint raised an eyebrow, the effect somewhat marred from the pizza sauce around his mouth. 

“Bucky can talk for his own goddamn self,” says the man himself. 

“Well, do you?” 

“Don’t mind doing an honest day’s of work to get S.H.I.E.L.D. and worrywart here off my back,” Bucky says, gruff. 

“Jerk.” Steve punched him in the arm, eyes a little less sad around the edges. 

“Punk,” Bucky pushed him into Sam, “Keep him outta trouble, he’s a goddamn menace.”

“You’re hired, then.” Clint shrugs, holding out the pizza box. “Want a slice?” 

“Sure.” 

And that’s how Clint was entrusted with the care of an ex-brainwashed assassin. Mistress Irony courts him too often. 

  


Being in charge is different. For one, Clint has to make the decisions and then, people actually follow through on them. They’ve reached a rhythm by the end of the week, the five of them. Colin did their marketing with social media, showcasing the various types of cartons the bots had made. Alisha created a website for them, detailing their prices, process and materials. Clint ensured that the materials used were ethically sourced. Bucky and Julia got on like a house on fire, with Julia cheerfully teaching him how to make origami planes from unwanted paper. 

While they waited for a customer base, Clint and Bucky scoped out the local shelters for their requirements. When his employees - which wow, still not a term he’s used to hearing himself say - heard of his plan, they all pitched in after work hours to add some necessities like blankets, socks and tampons along with books and old ipods for entertainment. 

And then the requests rolled in. 

  


“There’s a man here, wants some cartons for his daughter’s birthday.”

“You’re giving your daughter cartons for her birthday?” Alisha quirked her lips. 

“It’s for the party. I’m having a scavenger hunt and the clues will be in the cartons. You guys custom make them yeah?” 

“Well, technically the bots do,” Clint says while Julia asks the man for details. 

  


“Uh, boss.” Clint looks up to find a flustered Colin, pointing at the screen. “How do I respond to this request?”

“Looking for a sturdy carton to hold my collection of sex toys,” Bucky reads out gleefully, “Should withstand 50 pounds.” He lets out a low whistle. 

“First, take a screenshot for Tony.” Clint says, once he’s done laughing his ass off. “Then send out the standard response. The Carton Overlord does not kinkshame.”

“Still a terrible name, boss,” Alisha calls out, pausing her programming to mock him. Clint takes that as a compliment, she usually never looks away from the screen. Tony’s already tried to poach her away from Clint multiple times, but Alisha’s content with reprogramming his bots. She confides to Clint that she wants to see how outrageous his wooing would get. Clint shamelessly encourages this. 

“Even Bucky’s is better than yours, man,” Colin adds. 

“Ex-Murder Bot is a fantastic name,” Bucky says, affronted.

“Sure, buddy.”

  


“You’ve named the bots?” Colin chuckles, thankfully not mocking. He’s been an excellent applicant, and Clint doesn’t want to restart the interview process. 

“Well, I asked them what they wanted to be called and they replied,” Alisha replies, defiant. 

“They can talk?” Colin’s eyes widen. 

“In code, but it’s not always coherent. They’re only partial AIs but they’re capable of learning,” she says, patting Bartbot 1’s claw. 

“This is the weirdest job I’ve had.” 

“Oh, honey.” Julia tutts at him, fingers not faltering as they type furiously. “It’s only going to get weirder.”

“Now that you’ve jinxed us, Jules,” Clint drawls, throwing a ball at Lucky. 

  


“You can’t go out there, Clint.” Colin literally pushes him back into his office. 

“Why not?”

“Bucky’s bonding with the bots. You’ll spook them,” he says. 

  


“So what do you think of our website?” Colin asks, frazzled. His hair’s all over the place, dark circles surrounding his eyes. 

“I’d ask why everything has purple accents, but...” Bucky shakes his head at Clint. 

“It was his only request, I thought I’d oblige. You don’t want to know the many ridiculous conditions I’ve been given while freelancing.”

“It’s great, Colin. The purple is perfect and you animated the cartons!” Clint says, tapping the bouncing cartons with a wide smile. 

“That was Alisha’s suggestion, said you’d like that.”

  


“Who finished the coffee?” Bucky asks, voice deceptively mild. 

“I don’t drink coffee,” Julia says, looking up briefly and then returning to their typing. 

“I get mine from Starbucks,” Colin admits, holding up a to-go tumbler. 

“It was Clint,” Alisha says, pointing at the mug in the sink.

“Barton. You better not be hiding in the office.” Bucky stalks angrily, taking the coffee jar with him. 

“Clint’s so gonna get it.” Alisha laughs from where she’s supervising the bots. 

“No, Lucky’s in there.”

“Aw, I was hoping for some workplace drama.” Alisha pouts. 

“It is indeed terrible that we have such a lovely work environment.” Colin rolls his eyes, checking the website for updates. 

  


“I hear you’re the guy who deals with the packages.”

“If this is another stoner, we sell cartons not packages. And not every package is a code word for weed, dammit.”

“I’m sorry,” the guy sounds stilted, speaking slowly and with emphasis, “I need to send a friend some stuff.”

“Again, we’re not a mail service. We’d be happy to direct you there, it’s out the door.” 

“Snappy comeback, boss.” 

“If you’re finished interrupting, I’m trying to describe the object you need to pack.”

“Oh, my bad. We get way too many prank calls for a company that makes cartons. How can I help you, sir?”

“I need to send a friend these old artifacts.”

  


“Hey, Clint?” Alisha calls out, holding something gingerly in her hands. “We said no to animals in the ad, right?”

“Yes, why do you ask - oh my god, that’s an actual possum,” Clint gasps, rushing over to peer at it. 

“More importantly, why are you holding it?” Julia asks, persuading a bot to shield them.  

“Possums are just misunderstood, they’re totally harmless,” Alisha says, stroking the animal.   

“Put it back in the box and return it to the sender.” Bucky says, firm. 

“Are you sure we can’t keep him as an office pet?”

“How dare you let a possum usurp Lucky’s righteous throne?” Clint looks at her in mock-horror, clutching his bow to his chest. 

  


Clint doesn’t have to wait long for the other shoe to drop. 

“Aliens.” Bucky deadpans.

“Aliens.” Clint nods. 

“This is a fucked up century,” Bucky says, head tilted at the text Tony had sent them. 

“You’re telling me. I try to get away from the superhero business, but the aliens come to me instead.”

“Does S.H.I.E.L.D. have a protocol for this?”

“S.H.I.E.L.D. has a protocol for everything. However, Fury’s in a snit so I’ve been instructed to handle this situation by myself.”

“You haven’t told him yet, you mean.”

“No, I have not.”

“You’re the boss. What do we do now?” 

  


Clint scratches the back of his head, wondering just how they’d come to this. It had been another normal day at Barton’s Cartons, Inc when they noticed something odd about the assembled boxes. Well, normal for their standards - Alisha coming down from a programming stretch, Colin fussing with the bots’ hinges and Julia yelling at the printer. Bucky and Clint were setting a role model for productivity by challenging each other again with darts. They had their own special set of rules and targets. Clint was aiming a dart at the Loki picture near the boxes when he caught it. There was a faint trail of slime on one of the boxes. 

Upon further investigation, they found traces of the slime on several boxes. There didn’t seem to be a pattern, nor was there any damage to the packaging. Clint would have been happy to dismiss them as snail tracks, only it wasn’t snail season and the slime had a multicolored sheen. They sent a carton to Tony for analysis, hoping it wasn’t anything malicious. Aliens however, was not something Clint had expected. 

“Should have let me install security cameras,” Tony quips later that evening, his voice soft and understanding. 

“Yeah, yeah.” Clint waves him off, putting on a show of slurping his noodles.

Apparently taking a sabbatical from the superhero business didn’t mean he could skip Wednesday dinner at the Avengers Tower. The message usually came from Steve’s or Bruce’s mobile, but the content was all Tony. Never likes to admit he cares, but he never stops caring either. Of course sometimes he’s just an asshole. But no matter what, he always comes back and apologizes with tech or with over-the-top gifts. 

“Do you need the Avengers on this?” Bruce asks, peering at him above his glasses. 

“I didn’t see a report from S.H.I.E.L.D.,” Natasha comments, even though everyone knows that she’s the one who writes reports about him. They have an ongoing bet on whether Clint will get to the latest one without anyone noticing. If he grabs the file before it’s processed, he gets a bag of candy. If he doesn’t, Natasha will hold it over his head for a week. And then the next report will have to be filed, starting it all over again. 

“We’re setting up a stakeout tonight, no backup necessary,” Bucky says, and everyone nods without questioning him. If it were him, Steve would have stared him down until he agreed to take one of them along. Perks of being an ex-assassin. There are no perks of being ex-brainwashed, only disturbing nightmares and insomnia. Clint focuses harder on the food, content to lean against Bucky’s shoulder and let the conversation wash over him. 

After dinner, Steve pulls Clint aside with all the subtlety that comes with his Captain America uniform. Clint catches Natasha and Bucky sharing a look of exasperation as they leave. 

“You know, I don’t think Sam will like that you’re taking me away all to yourself.” 

“Sam would bring a camera,” Steve says, cheeks turning pink. 

“Why, Steve, you sly old dog.” 

“How’s it going with Bucky?” Steve asks, shifting to intense immediately. 

“I won’t violate my employee’s privacy,” Clint says. 

“Clint...just, is he doing alright?” 

“He’s perfectly fine,” Bucky’s voice interrupts them and they turn to see him, arms folded and staring at Steve impassively. 

“I...I’m not gonna apologize for worrying about you,” Steve says, defiant. 

“Yeah well, next time just ask me, punk.” Clint steps aside while they do their routine, heading off to finagle some dessert. Not from Natasha, though. Deadpool hasn’t stopped sending him letters to reconsider his employee application. Actual, paper letters that show up with the regular mail. Julia throws them all in the separate tray they keep for drinking games. 

“Alisha appreciates the latest upgrade you gave the bots--” Clint adds to Tony, before leaving for the stakeout, “--but she says if you sneak anything into her programming again, she will make them murder bots. We already have a murder bot.”

“It’s my official title, I’m Ex-Murder Bot and Clint’s The Carton Overlord,” Bucky explains, to a frowning Steve and a delighted Tony. 

“What’s Alisha’s title?” Tony asks, eyes dancing. 

“I think I’ll get you an Alisha’s #1 fan mug for Christmas,” Bucky says, grinning. 

“She’s Code Queen, Protector of the Bots,” Clint says, keeping the ‘from Stark’ to himself. He smiles a bit, recalling the time Bucky had called her Q in a hurry, leading Alisha to call him Bond. That had led to an after-hours movie marathon of their favorite Bond movies, with Bucky affronted that this was an example of a spy. He spent the entire night whispering angrily into Clint’s ears. Clint pretended not to notice the pointed looks from the other three. 

Clint pretends to be unaware of most things. Like how warm Bucky felt pressed up against him, his hands jabbing at the screen as he spoke. How the instant he had shivered, Bucky had draped his coat over him. The sheer amount of time they spent together, even after the day’s work. Their easy acceptance of each other’s trauma. He was almost glad that they had aliens, something to keep his mind away from Bucky’s soft hair and his even softer lips. 

  


“You want the first watch?” Bucky quirks his lips. 

Clint shoots him a look in response. Neither of them are getting any sleep tonight. He shakes his head, innuendo will only serve to distract him. They’re both adept at seeing in the dark, so they have light as their element of surprise. Bucky’s in his Winter Soldier suit, save the mask and goggles, fully equipped to wreck havoc on the aliens. Clint’s armed with his bow and quiver, pouting that he has to wear his backup Hawkeye outfit. A voice that sounds suspiciously like Natasha tells him it’s his fault for refusing to pick up his S.H.I.E.L.D. dry cleaning. 

“Since you missed the obvious question, you can take the floor and I’ll be up.” Clint smirks, climbing up to the rafters with ease. 

“Hell, no. You’re staying down, the carton pile will provide us good enough cover,” Bucky says, sprawling across the floor, stretching out and patting the floor beside him. “Get down.” 

“The rafters provide an excellent view of the warehouse.”

“And absolutely no cover,” Bucky points out, then sighs and waves a small bag at him. “If you come down, I’ll even share my candy with you.”

“You know I can swipe that with an arrow, yes?”

“You know I can crush the arrow with my hands, yes?”

“You’re a terrible employee,” Clint says, sliding down reluctantly. 

“I try my very best,” Bucky replies solemnly, offering him a pack of skittles. 

“The first thing I’ll ask the aliens is why they picked my office,” Clint grumbles. 

“Not everything’s about you, Barton. They could be here for my beautiful assembly, for all you know.”

“The slime all over your ‘beautiful assembly’ says differently.”

“Please, you’re just mad the slime’s not purple.” 

“It messes with the theme!” 

“Purple is not a theme,” Bucky retorts, shoving the skittles pack in his face. “Look, even the candy agrees.”

“You’re just jealous, Barnes. Leave my relationship with purple alone,” Clint says, voice as snooty as he can make it with a packet of candy pressed against his cheek. He only gets an unimpressed sniff in return. 

“Do you think they’ll show today?” Bucky motions to the cartons, legs swinging. 

“Didn’t seem like they took anything yesterday, could have been a recon mission.” 

“A reconnaliensce.” Bucky announces, triumphant.

“How did Steve put up with your nerdy ass.” Clint shakes his head, groaning at the terrible pun. 

“How did Natasha put up with yours.” 

“Julia’s teaching me how to knit,” Bucky says, abruptly. 

“That’s...good?” Clint ventures, eyeing him carefully. 

Bucky opens his mouth to reply when they hear a faint hum. They quickly scan the floor of the warehouse, looking for the source. It’s Clint who spots a dome-like aura towards the rear, the hum fading away. He motions for Bucky to follow and they crawl closer quietly, peering through the cracks between the cartons. Three aliens emerge out of a small spaceship, all of them about two feet tall. The smallest alien gestures to the cartons, babbling excitedly to the others. Bucky focuses on his enhanced hearing and Clint reads their lips. 

“Mom, look! They have so many different shapes and sizes,” says the alien...kid, apparently. 

“What have I told you about interplanetary travelling?” The mother looks down sternly. 

“It’s Earth, they already know about aliens,” the kid whines, and points at the cartons again. “You said I could choose my bed when I’m 10. Momma agreed too!”

“Momma did not agree to let you use the spaceship on your own,” The other alien says, voice rising with each word. 

It’s at this point that Clint decides that he’s heard enough, even Bucky’s chuckling quietly at the kid trying to get his way. Bucky still insists on walking ahead of him, and Clint doesn’t complain because a) the man shared his skittles with him and b) he doesn’t want to get lectured again. There’s a reason c) legs that are strong and could probably choke him, which he blocks as best he can. It would seem his type is former Russian assassins who can kill him with their thighs. 

An hour later, they’ve soothed an embarrassed mother alien, exchanged payment information with the other mother alien and sorted out the carton specs for the kid alien. Clint pretends not to notice Bucky introducing the Bartbots to the kid, showing him how they make the cartons. It’s rare enough that Bucky will pay attention to customers, he doesn’t want to interrupt their discussion. He does take pictures for Jules’ secret collage. 

“She said she’ll send cleaning stuff for the drool,” Clint says, finally letting out the laughter he’s been keeping under a tight hold. 

“Kid thanked the bots for their hard work,” Bucky says, pleased. 

“Drool!” Clint exclaims, once he’s done laughing, “We were on a stakeout because of drool.” 

“Lay off the kid, he can’t control it.” 

“Are you defending his drool? Do you have drool issues too? Wake up in a wet spot, huh?” Clint winks and pats his shoulder, as if to console him. 

“Wouldn’t you like to know, sweetheart.” Bucky smirks, just a tad off from his usual. 

“I would,” Clint blurts out, immediately wishing the words back. Where’s a portal when you need one? 

“How about a coffee first?” Bucky says, hopefully. 

It’s the hope in his voice that allows Clint to breathe. It helps him examine the facts, realize that if Bucky’s teasing him he wouldn’t let the hope color his words, and review exactly how much they’ve been flirting with each other. It lets him think of how comfortable he feels around Bucky, that they don’t have to talk to communicate, that even Lucky is happier when Bucky’s around. 

“Yeah, okay,” Clint replies, awkwardly scratching his head and willing himself to continue. “But, just...be patient with me?” 

“So that’s a no to the drool check, gotcha.” Bucky smiles, punching his shoulder. 

“Well, no for now.”

“I can’t believe our code word for sex is going to be drool,” Bucky says, rolling his eyes. 

“All the better to traumatize our children,” Clint says, then puts his face in his hands. “Pretend I didn’t say that.”

“Too late, already naming them.” Bucky ruffles his hair, pulling him into a side hug. 

Clint groans, but enjoys the feel of Bucky pressed up against him. He turns into the embrace, daring Bucky to say something. He doesn’t though and they just stand like that for a while, neither of them making to move away. 

Some days, Clint doesn’t hate himself at all.    

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! Do let me know what you think of the fic, and if I've made any glaring errors heh. Also, I have a [tumblr](http://blue-sheets.tumblr.com), should anyone want to come chat crack headcanons...I have oh so many of them. :D


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